Compromise the Fragility
by LunaDiamond
Summary: [Cross-posted from AO3] He becomes folded into again and again, crushed and tarnished and defied against his morals, standing in the corner with red washed over like a impressionistic painting, fingers curving around the knife, the manipulative silver which he used to hate like so, and he laughs. The laughter is nothing but sound. (Darkfic) General - Split Personality AU


Notes: Okay, this is dark, so if it disturbs you in any way, please back out now. ;;

-.-.-

In a stereotypical world like this, no one would even begin to suspect a child of eight years old of a thing as far off as _murder._

But he wasn't eight, he probably wasn't even eighteen anymore. Conan wasn't anyone now. He was someone who'd snapped long ago, something inside his mind that had been so fragile and worn and strained which had been jerked and pulled for years had broken.

It's not that he hates to be alone, but it's just that he's afraid of the distorted crack, growing and carving through the ground which he stands on like a silent earthquake. And the red flows through it, glimmering like a million rubies _massacred_ and _slaughtered_ into nothing but fragments, then poured heartlessly into the abyss, which Conan stands next to.

A dark drop splashes onto his skin, contrasting the smooth alabaster, and travels down sluggishly, and the bespectacled boy gazed upon it, not even sure if it's his tears or someone else's blood anymore as it drips and drips.

(Always hurting, always healing.)

It doesn't matter, to him, it's all the same now.

 _Feel._

He places his hand over his chest – an unfamiliar and strange action – and he feels stillness. _Nothingness_. There's nothing replacing the gaping hole where his heart used to be, and he really couldn't care less.

And he becomes folded into again and again, crushed and tarnished and defied against his morals, standing in the corner with red washed over like a impressionistic painting, fingers curving around the knife, the manipulative silver which he used to hate like so, and he laughs.

The laughter is nothing but _sound_.

-.-.-

He only barely remembers the days before where everything around him was blue and dry.

He can only feel his memories prance around in his hellish present. He's forgotten how to see, he's forgotten if he can. If he takes another step, breathes another breath in his old, sepia memories, he'll crumble in the present, and he'll fall, into the jagged cavern of insanity and it'll be impossible to crawl out of it from then.

So he doesn't move in his vivid memories, afraid of the loneliness and melancholy of the possibility that if he did, the world crumbles, and he's left there, standing in the middle of _oblivion_ where nothing exists anymore.

There were three children, playful and rambunctious. What were their names?

There was a boy and his accent and cap, a girl with chocolate hair and a smile, a man clad in white and an enigmatic grin. What were their names?

..There was a boy in a blue uniform and a funny cowlick, sixteen and boastful, his eyes some colour Conan doesn't bother to name glimmering, and a ghost of a large grin.

 _Who is he?_

-.-.-

 _Watch._

Heiji didn't realise it until he found himself staring in horror at a boy, eight years old towering over a man who laid still and deathly white. A sliver of moonlight bounced eerily off a _something_ of silver which the Osakan knew all too well what it was.

A shudder, a gasp, and a small, pitiful pained sound and the boy drops the mad glint of silver. It clatters on the floor with a shrill _cling._

A choked sob, a hugging of the arms, a look of sheer revulsion, and he curls in on himself, he crumples, and all that's remaining is a tiny, furled ball of nothing but a life gone _wrong_ and time divided from his touches.

(While seeking solitude, I blend into everyone else.)

The Osakan stills from around the corner of the dank alleyway, repeating to himself that it's not true, that Ku- _Conan_ wouldn't do anything even close to this. The boy he knew was bursting with life and grins and pride, and looked up towards the camera every time.

(Vivid memories pierce where my heart was.)

Now though, Heiji remembers the paranoid glint in the midst of the cerulean blue at the mere suggestion of the media, the blank, empty slate of the face while looking at a corpse, the twitch of the shoulder, clamminess of the hands, the voice devoid of emotions while pointing out the evidence.

The corpses still shake Heiji, even if he says nothing of the sort, they show the madness and the sheer _carnage_ of the world and those who reside in it.

But it's a world like theirs that they live in, and it's this world that abandoned them, leaving them for the dead and the rotting.

-.-.-

Ran _sees_ it. She sees the change in her surrogate brother over the years. The familiar and bright tint to his smile and the colour in his cheeks and vivid hues in his eyes have faded into something a little more inert, just a little more _silent._

(Like watching a secret plot unfurl.)

Ran doesn't like it, she doesn't welcome it to the boy who she's looked after for years, watching him grow and laugh and smile.

Now he comes home silent, not even an _"I'm home,",_ and Ran doesn't realise he's there until she hears the rustling of paper – his tardy homework which he's not handing in on time anymore.

She's asked Kazuha, she's queried about it to Sonoko, and even questioned her own father. They shake their heads at her and tell her that she's delusional and that the boy is _perfectly healthy_ for his age. Ran knows better.

 _Listen._

Another year passes and the calls from her detective-geek childhood friend cease completely. It's planted a tiny seed of worry in her, fretting over his wellbeing and is he's eating well if he's _stillalive_.

It seems like Conan's gone quieter over the years too, his youthful chirps and whiny pleading ceased a decent amount, and he's taken an interest in cooking as well, so Ran lets him chop the onions and the baby tomatoes, listening to the beat of the silver kitchenware hitting the board steadily.

 _He's very skilled with those knives_ , Ran remembers thinking.

(We give agony a limit, unconsciously so.)

Conan's actions have grown a bit stiffer too, and he isn't as energetic as he used to be. He's barely grown, and he's taken a strangely familiar to coffee – absolutely no cream, no sugar and entirely pitch _black_.

Ran washes the cups in the morning, rubbing at the brownish stains on the inside of the mug, the smell of caffeine brings back painful memories of _him_.

She wonders where he's gone.

-.-.-

KID frowns, squinting into the cityscape around him. He had fully expected his favourite critic to arrive, slamming the door open with a look of triumph playing upon his face.

But he knows that this may just be another of these heists to add to the many others which his tantei-kun hadn't shown up on.

The little detective had cut down of heists during the last year or so, slowly but surely. KID – Kaito too – was worried at first, but he decided that the miniscule detective needed a break too, and maybe some people do change over time.

With a sigh, he draws back, and reaches into one of his many pockets to curl his fingers around the _Bloody Tear,_ a large, 25-carat red diamond from the depths of the Argyle Mine from Western Australia.

Upon hearing the name and the urban legends – a man who's gone missing when his house was set on fire around 50 years ago was found in the ruins of the blazes, _unscathed_ by flames, but starved to death, and found shot in the heart – he was sent in a giddy of anticipation, a candidate closer to Pandora then he's ever found. Kaito, on the other hand sternly tells him that, if it really was what they were looking for all along, KID would have to be on high alert when he showed the gem to the moonlight.

 _Taste._

His nose pricked up. Something smelled like iron in the air, tasted like iron on his tongue, bitter and familiar, and it was a tad bit concerning. _Blood._

Was someone bleeding?

He hoped it wasn't any of his fans, or the Task Force, or even the snipers. These trigger-happy freaks stirred up trouble when they need to, but if someone managed to spill _their_ blood, KID was going to have to watch his each and every step then.

And where was _tantei-kun?_

He hopped down from the ledge and descended into freefall, white wings of his glider cutting the night air. The taste of sickening red grew thicker and thicker, and it clogged his nose and mouth.

Something catches his eye, a glint, faint yet sure, in one of the alleys. The thief frowned, _that didn't look natural to him_.

Tantei-han? Was that his SAX cap in one of the dark corners? Kaito growled, this was getting stranger and stranger. Something was so wrong, and it was like that day his father died all over again, the inevitable sinking pit in his stomach.

(Something wrong.)

With a graceful hop, he landed on the ground, his pristine cape behind him flowing as he presses himself against the wall, listening for sounds and anything to give him a basis for the situation. From his field of vision, it seems like tantei-han wasn't moving, and wasn't intending to. His breathing pattern seemed strangely shallow, if the fast rising and falling of his chest was any indication.

KID decided that the only appropriate thing to do now was to ask directly the western detective.

In his mind, Kaito grits his teeth and screams for his other self to just get out of here and away. KID bluntly ignores him, the same unease steadily growing and it's not stopping anytime soon.

"Tantei-han."

Heiji turns his head around at a supersonic level, possibly getting whiplash and three or four cricks in the neck in the process, but the thing that really makes the phantom thief freeze to the bone was what he was looking at, just a mere few meters away, something utterly revolting and bone-chilling. It was only with the pair of glasses with one lens shattered on the ground almost by their feet that his brain decided to leap to conclusions – or what he hoped was one.

 _"_ _Tan-"_

In his mind, Kaito punches his counterpart and glowers on him.

 _'_ _Do you think attracting his attention would do us any good right now?'_ He spat, shivering slightly. KID wipes the blood from his mouth and shakes his head.

 _'_ _Sorry, you're right.'_

"KID?" Heiji mutters, as his gaze flickers back and forth, and his voice wavers just a little, "Why are you here..?"

Kaito narrows his eyes while KID's plastic grin stiffens and tightens just slightly around the sides.

"What's happening, Hattori-kun?" Kaito slammed in in place of KID, who was just slightly speechless at the moment. The Osakan detective didn't even seem to notice the change in honorifics when his bottom lip trembled.

"That's not Kudou, it's not, it's not," He repeated. Kaito clenched a fist, they needed to get out of here, fast, before Conan – Kaito's deadly sure that's not Kudou Shinichi – hears even a peep from them.

But first, Heiji.

 _Slap._

"This is no time for denial, Hattori-kun," Kaito hissed, "We're getting out, _now_."

The other could only grit his teeth and nod.

And they ran, far and farther. It was only when they saw the flickering lights of the Task Force that they slowed, and Kaito flinched as the raw taste of blood, previously faded, now grew stronger again. He turned his head behind him, and caught the sight of a bowtie, the red he wasn't even sure if it was from it's design or blood anymore.

(There's sorrow, but in no need of redress.)

The boy wearing it was standing blankly around the corner, black from the night eating away from his appearance.

-.-.-

Shinichi stopped counting the seconds in his invisible cage long ago, and stares at the little patch of red on the floor.

The door clicks, something unreal, something imaginary, only there for effect, and he turns his head sideways to see Conan standing there, faux sunny grin forever imprinted on the childish face.

Underneath, though, is something hideous and born out of the detective's own bitterness and resent.

"Shinichi-niichan, how are you feeling?" He chirps. The boy receives nothing as a reply, the sound of silence resounding in the room. Conan pouts, the look of a spoilt child on the verge of a tantrum, but the red glow in his eyes are still there. His blue jacket is crumpled and sporting crusty, dry patches. The bowtie is still as a vivid red, seemingly untouched.

Shinichi's watching a murderer. He's stopped observing nowadays.

"Aw, Shinichi-niichan, you're always no fun.. Ne, why don't we play a game?" The smile that comes along with the sentence is sickly sweet and coated with poisoned honey.

The honey's long expired already.

"I don't wish to play, Edogawa-kun," He replies blandly. Conan hums as he sits down in front of his other self.

"But it'll be fun, promise!"

(Standing in the midst of inhumane, yet also walking into it's claws.)

"No."

The grin spreads and stretches like a creeping pool of oil, and then lit on fire, the red flames and blazes and ashes scattered everywhere, over everything.

"You're already playing, Shinichi," He laughs a little as he cups a tiny hand on the older boy's cheek, and it's cold, it's lifeless, it's the feeling of death.

It's the last thing he feels before everything explodes and he's plunged in white hot pain and bone-melting heat.

-.-.-

Hakuba Saguru was an observant person, someone who can read body language like reading a mere book. Though, he admits, that the only person he couldn't get a complete grasp of was Kaitou KID.

And the child in glasses.

He thought it was just a normal night after a heist, Nakamori-keibu spitting vivid and ear-splitting language, and the officers struggling in vain to peel the sticky-putty off.

He didn't expect a familiar white and blue top-hat to enter his vision and a white and green cap, both hiding spooked and aged eyed beneath.

"Hakuba!" Kaito almost screams, and stumbled as he hauls Hattori Heiji along, both as pale as ghosts, and it didn't like a trick of moonlight.

"KID?" He almost stumbles over his words as he scans over the two figures with a critical eye, "What happened?"

Kaito catches his breath unevenly, slightly shaking, and catches his words in his throat. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't possibly tell the Task Force to arrest Conan, because then they'd also be arresting Shinichi as well.

"It's nothing," He pants, and Saguru raises a disbelieving eyebrow, and the scowl only grows.

"I do not take 'nothing' as a valid reason when you both look so dishevelled."

Something behind them moves, like slinking death, and it clenches at the air, and Kaito can't turn around fast enough.

(When it turned twisted, it became serious.)

"Kudou-!" Heiji yelled, but the boy paid him no attention, eyes blank and the way he walked was stiff, like a puppet. Kaito hissed, and back-pedalled away.

 _That's Conan, not Shinichi._

 _Smell._

It reeks of death everywhere, squealing and clawing, the stench of blood and decay, rot, it clouds the atmosphere.

Something screams. To Kaito's sheer horror the detective's not where his eyes were tracking him anymore. Heads turn, and something red flows to his feet and it smells like rusted copper.

 _-Is-not-blood._

"Sensui!" Nakamori's voice booms out, with a bitter and an angered undertone as he launches himself towards the cowlicked boy now standing next to a bleeding body, kitchen knife in hand, something folding into a monster by the second.

Before any of them could bite out something of a warning, Shinichi's movements were sweeping and sharp, something not even reflex anymore, but programming.

And more of the disgusting red splatters heavily on the pavement, except this time, neither Kaito or KID can look, as they hear the choked noise of pain.

He twists the knife sharply, with fluid movement, like he's done this a million and one times, and Nakamori falls.

The blank eyes turn to Kaito, Heiji and Saguru.

(Drops of blood the knife so easily grazed.)

And in that instant, something flickers in his eyes, something a rich ocean blue, as he smiles – real – and he holds the knife up in the air, blade pointing down.

It shimmers in a red and brown glow like a jewel, and KID's attention is suddenly piqued, even when he's focused and on guard in anticipation.

-.-.-

Conan desperately scrambles for control of the body, gritting and cursing himself that he shouldn't have let go of the control for even a millisecond, scrabbles and eyes wide in horror, as his glasses fall with a _crunch_ on the floor.

Shinichi plunges the knife inwards.

(Compromise the fragility.)


End file.
